


Somewhere Only We Know

by thewaterfalcon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 21:29:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12219303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaterfalcon/pseuds/thewaterfalcon
Summary: It had been three years since the end of the war, and the end of Pansy’s world as she knew it. She hadn’t wished Voldemort had won, of course she didn’t, but the smallest part of her longed for the Pansy she was; for the Pansy that existed now, with a last name that meant less than nothing, hadn’t truly lived for the entirety of the time since Voldemort had fell.TRIGGER WARNING: Mental health struggles/self-harm/hospitalisation for suicide attempts (only vaguely hinted at, no details)/Obsessive Compulsive Disorder





	Somewhere Only We Know

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SingMeARareOSComp](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SingMeARareOSComp) collection. 



> This piece will appear as a part of the Sing Me A Rare OS competition. I am an admin for the group that runs the competition, The Fairest of the Rare, and therefore I participated solely for fun and am not eligible for voting. 
> 
> All characters, spells, magical equipment and locations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling.
> 
> I'd like to thank SS and JP for their beta-work on this piece. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Prompt:**
> 
> Somewhere Only We Know, by Keane
> 
> "And if you have a minute why don't we go, talk about it somewhere only we know."

* * *

_I walked across an empty land_

_I knew the pathway like the back of my hand_

_I felt the earth beneath my feet_

_Sat by the river, and it made me complete_

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Pansy

She had become so adept, so complacent at saying the words, that eventually ‘I’m fine’ fell from Pansy’s lips with a similar ease to a current flowing over a waterfall. Even when she wasn’t. Even when her mindset was so far flug from fine that the concept may as well be stated in a foreign language, she still said them aloud to anyone and everyone who enquired.

It had been three years since the end of the war, and the end of Pansy’s world as she knew it. She hadn’t wished Voldemort had won, of course she didn’t, but the smallest part of her longed for the Pansy she was; for the Pansy that existed now, with a last name that meant less than nothing, hadn’t truly lived for the entirety of the time since Voldemort had fell. So she simply remained, no more and no less, with most of her company being that of one. She simply didn’t possess the charisma of Daphne nor the charms of Theo to integrate herself into the post-war bubble of friendship with those they had once mocked. She couldn’t be what Draco had become; still proud and assuring and stubbornly and utterly unwilling to accept when wrong but now holding himself with an almost humbleness that he had picked up from Merlin only knows where. They were what Pansy could never hope to be: they were liked.

Pansy sat on the same bench she had spent the last ninety seven lunch breaks seated upon. She knew the number because she counted each one just as she counted the number of grapes that she brought for her mid-morning snack and just as she measured the space between her inkpot and her parchment before she began her work each morning. Ninety seven work days since the last time the world had numbed from her head to her toes and she’d woken up in a St Mungo’s ward with no memory of the episode, that’s what they always called it, that had taken her there. Ninety seven breaks in the utterly mundane existence that she had created, and now hated. An existence that five years ago she would have scoffed at.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

Pansy started, her heart quickening slightly.

It wasn’t the ninety seventh time.

It was the first.

 

* * *

 

Ron

“I don’t know, Hermione!”

“Of course you don’t!”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Ron. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Bollocks.”

“What was that?”

“ I said that’s bollocks, and you know it.”

“Look, Ron...I’m sorry, okay. I didn’t mean anything by it, anything at all.”

The fight ran through his mind for the hundredth time that morning. The words weren’t out of the ordinary for the two, not now, and the realisation weighed heavy on Ron’s shoulders and heart as he walked from the Auror office desperate for the small reprieve existed only in his lunch hour.  

“Weasley, I need those reports by three, no later.”

“Sure,” Ron lied, his voice as deadpan as his face. He knew the reports were lying, only a third completed at most, abandoned in his bottom desk drawer. His desire to finish them was around the same level as his desire to return home that evening: only a hair’s width up from nonexistent.

His demeanour didn’t improve as he walked. This life, the perfect life that he’d wanted, that he’d sought out, was nothing like he’d imagined. He’d wanted his job long before he’d claimed the title, and he’d wanted his girlfriend long before she had claimed that title. Hermione was, in so many ways, heart-wrenchingly perfect; Ron sighed, running his fingers through his hair as he walked in no discernable direction. She was funny and held herself and her intelligence with such class, that was only getting more and more refined as time went on, that he could scarcely imagine a single goal that Hermione could set herself that she wouldn’t achieve in record time. She was beautiful, even when her hair was inexplicably untamed and her eyes were blazing with whatever their latest fight was about, she was still so beautiful. And she was wild, she was fun and she was every part of the last decade of Ron’s life.

In the months that followed the war they’d clung to each other, watching as Harry and Ginny did the same. He’d needed her in the hours when the world slept, when all was quiet except their tears. She had needed him to rub the spot on her hand with the pad of his thumb; the spot that enabled her to slow her breathing enough after she heard a cackle-like laugh. And when one had woken before the sun drenched in sweat, they’d needed the other to hold them until the images of dead brothers, dead friends and dead enemies had subsided.

Ron and Hermione’s pain was shared, and probably always would be, and they healed what they could of themselves and each other, their bond one of intimacy and understanding and desperate need. And needed it he had.

Needed, Ron closed his eyes, realising for the first time that he was walking through a park, with a river running alongside the path he were on. He had needed Hermione, just as she had needed him, not ‘need’, he internally deliberated. His fingertips trembled slightly as he approached the bench, there was a woman sitting at one end but Ron doubted she’d mind if he sat on the other, as a truth he didn’t want to acknowledge screamed loudly in his mind.

We just don’t need each other anymore.

 

* * *

 

Pansy

“Uhh, sure,” she replied, her voice wobbly. Nobody had ever joined her on her bench before. Swallowing, Pansy turned her head, expecting wholeheartedly to make painfully awkward eye contact with the man before turning back to her sandwich. Not much would have prepared her, however, to turn her head to look into an awfully familiar face.

Pansy’s mouth dropped open at the same time that Ron Weasley’s did, and for a long second they remained, each mimicking the shocked expression of the other.

“Oh, I didn’t realise it was…” Ron trailed off, clearly at a loss for words. “I can go,” he said eventually, his tone feeble.

She felt her eyes widen, of course he wanted to go, she was Pansy Parkinson for Merlin’s sake, and no one, not even her best friends, wanted to eat lunch with Pansy Parkinson. Not anymore.

“No,” Pansy blurted, not entirely sure why, “I mean, not if you don’t want to,” she gestured vaguely in the direction of the end of the bench he was closest to, “don’t go because of me.” She said the last words not much louder than a whisper and realised as soon as they’d left her lips that a part of her desperately wanted to add a ‘please’ on the end.

“Okay,” Ron replied, a tad uneasily, and promptly plopped himself down. Pansy watched him with a silent curiosity as his shoulders sunk and a crease appeared upon his brow. There was a brown bag clasped in his hand that Pansy suspected contained his lunch, although Ron opted to ignore it.

It felt all at once like an age and a split second, before they interacted again.

“So, how’s life treating you, Parkinson?”

She flinched at the use of her last name, not that Ron had said it with malice or animosity, it still served as a reminder of who she once was, and still was deep down, she supposed. Pansy swallowed, debating the lie that was dancing across her tongue, the lie that she probably ought to tell but for some reason wouldn’t come.

Perhaps it was the disdainful look that Ron wore, or nothing more than a hope that perhaps someone could view her without hatred, annoyance or more recently, pity - the pity was the worst, but she heard herself, surprisingly, admit the truth.

“Really shit, Weasley, how about you?”

Ron snorted first, and then let out a bark like laugh, at which Pansy scrunched her nose up at. She may check her doors were locked three times before she could go be bed, and she may find crowds difficult to handle and have scarily alluring daydreams of harming herself that Pansy didn’t know how to stop; she may very well be broken, but Pansy still had a shred of pride left.

“Well,” she exclaimed, standing, “it’s nice to know my misery entertains you Weasley...have a nice life!”

She had only walked one step before she heard a loudly exclaimed, “No! Oh, Merlin, no!” and felt an unfamiliar hand rest upon her upper arm.

“I’m sorry!” Ron spluttered, “that wasn’t why I was laughing, at all. Oh, bloody hell you must think I’m a right prick. I was laughing because my life is also really shit right now, that’s all, I swear.”

She surveyed him for a long second, scrutinising his face for signs he was misleading her, before she finally relaxed enough where she nodded, unspeaking, and moved towards the bench again.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said again, quieter this time.

“It’s alright, Weasley,” Pansy replied. “So, tell me all about how shit your life is.”

 

* * *

 

Ron

He still wasn’t entirely sure why, exactly, he had told her. When Ron thought of a confidant in his problems, Pansy Parkinson certainly wasn’t a name that came to mind, and yet, there was something about the way she quietly, without any of her trademark sarcasm or crude remarks, or anything he would have associated conversing with the girl previously, listened to his woes, of which they had soon discovered, were plentiful.

And yet, it was the lack of sharpness to her tongue Ron focused on as he walked back to his office. She had listened and offered input in such an un-Pansy-like manner that Ron almost found himself wishing for some of the comebacks and snark he would have expected. As surprisingly pleasant as the conversation was, which given it was full of moanings and annoyance, wasn’t very, even Ron, who himself could admit to having the observation skills of a flobberworm, knew the Pansy Parkinson he’d just discussed his whole world with, was missing so much of herself.

His thoughts drifted to Pansy numerous times that afternoon, as he hurriedly scribbled something on the reports that ended up being an hour late, as Harry dropped by to excitedly speak of another promotion he was being considered for. _Of course he’s going to be promoted again_ , Ron thought with genuine pride and not a trace of jealousy. Everything Ron disliked and performed only adequately at in their jobs as Auror, Harry loved and excelled at.

“Then quit,” she had said the two words with such simplicity, she could have been requesting a cup of tea.

Ron wished he could.

“Want to go for a drink?” Harry’s words wrenched Ron’s mind from Pansy once more.

“No mate, there’s something I...need to do.”

Harry frowned. “Alright, everything okay?”

Ron’s palm found his forehead. “Not really man, not really. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?” he stammered as he rose from his chair, suddenly desperate to be free of the stuffy Ministry building.

“Yeah, of course.”

Not waiting long enough to even say a response, Ron nodded at his best friend and promptly apparated home, where he was greeted with the unexpected sight of his girlfriend, a purple suitcase already full of clothes and a furlone expression. If the situation weren’t so sad, he may have laughed.

“I-I’m sorry,” was the first thing she said, and Ron exhaled a sigh through his nose, before he crossed the room and closed his arms around her, something he had confided to Pansy he hadn’t done in almost three months.

“Only you could be one step ahead of me so much, that you beat me at breaking up,” he breathed into her hair.

“Well, really Ronald,” Hermione said, her voice halfway between a chuckle and a sob, “you can’t expect me to break the habit of a decade.”

 

* * *

 

Pansy

At first it became a regular occurrence, and then a daily ritual. Every day they met at Pansy’s bench by the river, and every day, piece by piece, Pansy felt a little bit more like the Pansy she remembered.   
  
It wasn’t much, not in the grand scheme of things. She still held her rituals for completing everyday tasks, compulsions, that’s what the therapist she lied about attending every week called them, but Pansy preferred the term ritual, solely because it made her feel less mad.

“Why do you do it?”

“Because it’s pasta, Weasley, and that means that it’s food and therefore is supposed to be eaten,” Pansy replied as she took another forkful.

“No, not that, I mean why do you work as a secretary?” his tone was blunt, but not unkind and she knew the question was a fair one. She had money, her family was extraordinarily wealthy, everyone in Wizarding Britain knew that. It wasn’t a job that could take her on a career path, and it wasn’t something she particularly enjoyed. In fact, there was only one reason alone that Pansy worked as a secretary for the Apparition Test Centre.

“It was set up by-” Pansy halted, mid-sentence. She didn’t continue.

“By...unicorns?”

“I wish,” Pansy replied, surveying Ron. “This goes no further, understand?”

“I’ve never told anyone anything you’ve told me, and I wouldn’t.”

Pansy breathed deeply through her nose. “It was set up for me by...my therapist. Please don’t laugh,” she added in a quick breath.

“I know I have a shit sense of humour, but I’m not that awful,” Ron replied, watching her, as though he knew she was expecting him to suddenly loudly exclaim he never wished to see her, or her-their, bench again. “I don’t care, Pansy.”

She raised her face to meet his. “That’s the first time you’ve called me Pansy.”

“I know, felt bloody weird,” Ron replied with a soft chuckle.

The pair fell into a comfortable silence, and Pansy felt a very prominent something rise in her chest as she felt Ron’s fingers softly find her own and lace between them. He made no further movement, and neither did she. And yet, it was enough.

“I never imagined myself as a secretary,” Pansy eventually spoke. “I wanted to be a designer.”

“Clothes?”

Shaking her head, Pansy watched as the river, which was particularly high that day due to the heavy rainfall they had magically shielded themselves from. “Some clothes, but mostly just...things, things I like,” she paused, taking a breath as the ghost of dreams past flickered into her mind’s eye. “Duvet covers, and quill cases, and diaries...and makeup bags. I wanted to charm them, have this whole sky theme,” she began to talk more animatedly, “so take the duvet covers, I wanted to have them look like a galaxy when you went to bed, with shooting stars and nebulas, you know? But when you wake up they resemble a morning sky, or like the weather that day, like the Great Hall’s ceiling maybe. I don’t know…” she trailed off, feeling foolish.

“That sounds cool,” Ron replied, with what seemed to be a genuine interest, that prompted Pansy to keep going.

“I did think recently, what might be kind of… I don’t know, interesting...maybe, a diary, that is able to put the thoughts you don’t know how to express into words, or when you act a certain way, it writes that down, in a way that makes sense.”

“Like your rituals?” Ron asked, his voice was soft, clearly remembering their conversation from a few days previously. She felt the pad of his thumb rub backwards and forwards over the back of her hand.

“Yeah...like my rituals.”

 

* * *

 

Ron

“So, how have you been?”

“Good thanks, and you?”

It could have been awkward, and by rights, it probably should’ve been, but they were determined, post-breakup, to claim the friendship they had abandoned a while ago.

“I’ve been alright,” Ron replied, shooting her a small smile. His thoughts, as rudely as it was, were far from Hermione.

“Harry told me he’s not seen you as much, says you disappear every lunchtime,” Hermione said, raising her eyebrows, “having a secret affair, are we, Ronald?”

“No! It’s nothing like an affair, it’s-” Ron stopped, mid-sentence. _Shit_!

“Oh, so there is someone,” Hermione gasped, “tell me!”

“It’s complicated, it’s not...I don’t know what it is.”

“That was entirely the opposite of telling me anything,” Hermione stated pointedly.

Ron looked up from the single strand of spaghetti he’d been trailing around his plate. “Promise not to tell anyone?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve been sort of...having lunch with Pansy Parkinson, every day...for weeks,” the words sounded even more bizarre aloud than they did in his head.

He expected Hermione’s reaction to be one of disbelief, which it was, but what he wasn’t prepared for was for her to flash him a quick smile. “That’s great, Ron!”

“What?” Ron blurted, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

Hermione took a breath. “I work near Theo now, Theo Nott, do you remember him?” she asked, at which Ron nodded, “and he talked about Pansy one day, how she...struggled a lot after the war. He said she was taken to St Mungo’s and wouldn’t allow anyone to visit her, they all did; Theo, Draco, Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass, all of their friends, but he thinks that she convinced herself they all hate her, which they don’t. I know we never exactly saw eye to eye in school, but it sounds as though she’s had a hard time, and I hope you can help her, Ron.”

Ron blinked. He’d known of the trips, of which he knew there were actually more than one. He knew the Healers had referred to them as episodes and that she didn’t know why they happened, only that she hurt herself and ended up needing to be revived in some way, and he knew they made her feel mad, as did a lot of her behaviours. Ron didn’t think she was mad. Not when he thought back to the way he’d wake up, gasping for breath and reaching for Hermione just to feel something living and breathing and not dead, trying to stop himself from screaming.

Ron thought of Pansy, and the way she had opened up to him, and of the way a light seemed to shine through her eyes when they discussed just quitting their jobs one day, the way her whole self seemed to light up when she spoke of her dreams of designing. He told Hermione bits and pieces of his and Pansy’s conversations, of how they both had aspirations away from the Ministry, and eventually, he confided that seeing Pansy was the best part of his day. He didn’t tell her, however, how much he hoped the best part of Pansy’s day was seeing him. “I hope I can, too.”

“Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember what it was like, right after the battle?”

Ron nodded, swallowing. “Of course.”

“I needed you, and I think that you needed me to need you.”

“You’ve always been far too smart for your own good, do you know that?” Ron said with a huff.

“Actually, I do know that,” Hermione stated, matter of factly. “Ron?”

“Hmm?”

“Maybe...Pansy’s the one that needs you now.”

 

* * *

 

Six Months Later

Pansy

“And remember, Pansy, that if you feel you wish to come back at any time, we’ll always make sure to slot you in.”

Pansy nodded. “Thank you, I appreciate it.” And she did, incredibly so, but going back for another session was the last thing on Pansy’s mind as she exited the therapist’s office for what would hopefully be her final time.

She spied him across the road, leaning over the railing and looking out over the river, and feeling a burst of elation, Pansy, after quickly checking the road either way, jogged across and wrapped her arms around his midriff. “I’m free!” she exclaimed, elongating the e sound as Ron turned around, still wrapped in her arms, and planted a single kiss on her forehead.

“I’m so proud of you, babe.”

“I’m proud of me, too,” she replied softly.

“You should be, you’re incredible.”

They disentangled themselves from each other and began to walk, hand in hand, down the street. “I am pretty incredible,” Pansy replied, in what was such a Pansy-esque manner than she could feel both herself and Ron beaming at the words. “How was business after I left yesterday?”

“Steady, actually,” Ron replied as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the back of his hand, in the same way she remembered him doing the very first time he took her hand in his, “George wants to start working on that unicorn line too, by the way.”

Pansy smirked, secretly thrilled. “Of course he does, it was a brilliant idea.”

Ron snorted in response, “It was babe. How was seeing Daphne yesterday?”

“Oh! OH! I didn’t tell you! She wants to start working on the diaries as soon as next month, like,” Pansy waved her free hand around with vigour as she spoke, “production, as soon as next month!”

She squealed as Ron suddenly pulled her into him, stopping them mid walk. He whirled around and placed both his palms on either side of her face before placing first one, and then two and three soft kisses on her mouth. “I love you, Pansy Parkinson.”

“I love you too, Ron Weasley.”

 

* * *

 

Ron

The shop appeared deserted as Pansy wove her way past all the Weasley products, eyeing anything she was unsure of warily. It wasn’t until she’d been searching for a good five minutes that she finally located him, his torso entirely buried in a nearby shelf, Hermione Granger was standing nearby, watching Ron’s bottom half with a half-frown. Pansy shot the other witch a small smile and placed a finger vertically over her lips, signalling quiet. Hermione gave her a nod and returned the smile before Pansy, spying an opportunity, her newly-manicured fingertips finding their way to her boyfriend’s stomach, causing him to emit a much higher pitched scream than she knew he’d ever admit later.

He emerged with a rather grumpy expression present upon his face, to see Pansy, having exploded in a fit of hysterics at his scream, almost bent double with laughter, next to an equally amused Hermione.

“That was uncalled for.”

“Correction, that was incredibly called for,” Pansy replied dismissively.

“I agree with Pansy,” Hermione chimed in, much to Ron’s annoyance.

“Well, no one asked you,” he hissed.

Pansy laughed wickedly. “Maybe I did,”  

“You definitely didn’t,” Ron said, his annoyance clearly leaving him as he placed a series of kisses over Pansy’s cheek, ending the trail at her mouth.

“Ugh! Please stop!” Ron heard Hermione cry from somewhere to his right, and couldn’t help but laugh as he ignored her request.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” Ron said as he placed one final kiss on his girlfriend’s cheek.

“I wanted to see if you’d join me for lunch, but,” she gestured towards Hermione, “if you two have plans, then it can be another day, it doesn’t-”

“We don’t have plans,” Hermione interjected as she rummaged in her bag, “I need to get to work, you two have a nice lunch,” she said with a smile before turning with a wave and walking towards the entrance to the shop.

Pansy placed her hands on each of Ron’s shoulders as he wrapped his arms around her waist. “I suppose I can spare you a minute.”

“Oh, well Weasley, how gracious of you!”

“I’m a very gracious person,” he said with a wink.

“You sound like me,” she wrinkled her nose before pressing herself against him, “I think I like it,” she said, feigning coyness.

The corners of Ron’s mouth tugged upwards and he held her tighter. “Hmm, well we should talk about how much you like it over lunch, where do you want to go?”

Ron smiled against her mouth as she placed a single, lingering kiss upon his lips, breaking away, she looked at him, her green eyes meeting his blue. “Somewhere only we know.”

  
  



End file.
